


those isles of yours

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Series: In This World and the Next [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Angst, Assault, Author working through newly identified kink of steve on his knees, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Cracky, Cross-Post, Evil Alexander Pierce, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Knifeplay, Lactation Kink, Miscarriage, Nonverbal Communication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Prompt Fic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut, Steve is a cinnamon roll, Trigger Warnings, Tumblr Prompt, Unplanned Pregnancy, kind of, suspend belief, unabashed use of google translate, virgin natasha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cross-post and continuation of the Viking!Steve and Princess!Natasha prompts and storyline in "In This World and the Next." </p><p>  <i>everything carries me to you,</i><br/>as if everything that exists,<br/>aromas, light, metals,<br/>were little boats<br/>that sail<br/>toward those isles of yours that wait for me. </p><p>  <i>-Pablo Neruda</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rickrollerblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickrollerblades/gifts).



> The first two chapters are cross-posted. From then on out it's new (smutty) stuff. A thanks to everyone who expressed interest and support, including @elcapitan-rogers for suggesting everything. 
> 
> Because I am learning of vikings as I go, gentleness appreciated.

Steve collapsed onto his pallet, filthy and bone tired. The sounds of the men as they sang quietly filled the air, and he thought about how frankly unbelievable it was that they had made the trade so peacefully. Not that he wasn’t prepared to fight, they all were, he could tell by how keyed up the men were even hours later.   
  
Keyed up enough that he jumped at the sound of the small cough coming from his furs. His hand raced for his dagger as he moved the heavy blankets aside, his heart sinking upon the realization of two details:  
  
First, he didn’t have his dagger.  
  
Second, that was because it was pointed at him, currently held by the daughter of the king they had just traded with. Holding up his hands defensively, as though he was dealing with a skittish horse and not a frightened girl, he took the chance to look her over. Crimson hair in a long braid and a dress that would so quickly give her away- Had she honestly thought she could hide in with a bunch of weary travelers and warriors? She was much too…clean.   
  
She trembled as she waved his weapon, saying something in a language he didn’t know, and he swore he would protect her even so.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> again, cross posted (chapter 3 is the new stuff)

“Hey!” Steve snapped awake, the bucket of water a shock to his senses. He looked up to find the princess, bucket in hand and seething. “Are you mad?”

She answered in her own language, spitting the words out and he longed for an interpreter. They’d made it a month and a half, in hand gestures and broken words as he figured out what to do with her. She stubbornly refused to go home, and from the fear in her eyes when he said something and the bruises he’d caught once on her arm, he accepted it was for a good reason.

The other men didn’t question her presence, knew better and knew enough to know that asking questions was tantamount to challenging his authority. Instead, they accepted that she was his and that they would fight with Steve if and when the King sent for her.

She was his, he figured, even though he’d only bedded her once. She laid with him at night out of physical necessity, his warmth providing her shelter, and in turn, she was the one who handed him his mug of mead and it was her that made the bread every morning.

_(He’d only gone after her once, after battle when his bones ached and the adrenaline coursed through his veins. And she’d looked at him then like he was dangerous. Maybe he was, covered in mud and someone’s blood spattered on his face. But she also looked at him with something else, that he wouldn’t have even understood had she not lowered the sleeves of her chemise, her chest rising and falling in anticipation._

_It didn’t last long, her on her knees as he knelt behind her, kissing her shoulder blade as he pushed inside. She yelped, and he realized after it was much too late that he’d taken from her the last piece of her worth as a royal._

_“I’m sorry,” he said with sincerity, reaching around between her legs as his hips smacked against her bare skin, the grime of his own skin mixing with hers. Her eyes flashed like she was insulted but the fight gave way to soft mewls. He wished he could give her something better then, that he could bathe her and offer her something luxurious…)_

She was his and he thought it was probably well within his right to put her over his knee for how she’d woken him up. Tossing the bucket to the side, she climbed atop him and started punching, face like the devil. He grabbed her wrists and she sighed, defeated and face long.

“No,” he told her sternly, knowing she at least knew that word. She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chemise.

“No,” he repeated, confused. The sight of her, the curves of her breasts and he thought she certainly had gone mad and didn’t she know that there were better ways to ask. He couldn’t help responding, his cock pushing against her like an unwelcome intruder. She rolled her eyes and said something else, offended, and he felt shame but he didn’t know, didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.

Until she grabbed his hand and pushed it against her lower belly.

“ _Pебенок_ ,” she looked down, face full of worry and fear. “ _Baby_.”


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and here is the new stuff. fulfills a prompt from my lovely beta @spanglecap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to draw your attention to [ artwork ](http://elcapitan-rogers.tumblr.com/post/140025763396/romanogers-vikings-au-ruthless-vikings-king) done by @elcapitan-rogers; thank you to her and to @sunnie91 for discussing all fic related matters with me as I wrote this :)

The look she gave him when he brought her to the bath was something of fear and disbelief, her body tight and defensive in case he thought to drown her. A thought that made Steve laugh and he, not for the first time, wondered what her life was like before.

“Come on,” he nudged her forward until her thigh brushed against the wooden tub. He’d been anxious to feel the hot water on his muscles, to scrub himself clean of the journey and he had assumed she would be craving it as well.  

 _“нет,”_ she shook her head, holding her arms against her dress and he rolled his eyes. The dress itself was in desperate need of washing, wrinkled and damaged from her escape and the journey the tribe had made home. He’d already ordered a new one, ready for when she got out, and he was excited to present it to her, excited to see how she would look wearing something village-made. He’d even found some earrings and a bracelet worn by his own mother for her, in case anyone had questions of her status.

Whether she liked it or not, she was his now. His eyes strayed to her belly, still flat, and his heart sped up. She was his and a member of the tribe whether she liked it or not, whether anyone liked it or not, and it only made sense for her to start acclimating.

“No,” she repeated so that he could understand, her voice firm.  Steve shrugged, not wanting to fight, which caused her to relax. He didn’t miss how she gave a small smile, undoubtedly thinking she’d won that battle. He pulled his tunic off instead, tossing it to the ground, because he wasn’t about to just stand there, engaging in a pointless power struggle.

The princess let out a gasp and it was his turn to smile, looking down at the knotwork on his arms. He doubted, where she was from, that she’d seen skin like his, maybe that she’d ever had the chance to see tattoos on skin at all.  

 _“было больно?”_ she asked as she reached out to touch his shoulder, her fingertips tracing one of the blue threads that ran up to his shoulder. His breath caught in his throat as she followed the loop, her fingers burning and reminding him of what it had felt like to be tattooed in the first place. She hissed, teeth tight together and her other hand weaving and he laughed again.

“Yes, like a serpent, I suppose.”

The princess nodded and he grabbed her hand, pulling it close so that he could kiss her knuckles. “The water will get cold.”

“Cold,” she repeated, yelping then as he turned her around so that he could pull the cords to her dress. She protested, twisting and turning and, he noticed with a grimace, kicking. Steve didn’t even bother then with her shift, lifting her up and dropping her unceremoniously into the hot water.

 _“муда́к!”_ she yelled, splashing water all over the place and ruining a perfectly good bath. Steve grunted and pushed her under, hand on the top of her head, more to get her quiet than anything. She came up with a gasp, her hands darting toward the edge of the tub and he had to laugh because she looked like a drowned cat.

“Are you done?” he knelt beside the tub and met her eye. The princess didn’t respond, didn’t have to, her anger communicated perfectly fine in her eyes. She rattled off a few more words that Steve could guess were insults and he stood so that he could take his trousers off.

“That was for waking me up with the bucket,” he laughed. She glanced quickly at his nakedness before turning her head in irritation. Steve didn’t miss that she’d sunk into the tub just slightly, the warmth of the water doing its job.

Steve slid into the bath with a groan, facing his (his what? his bride? his princess?), moving so that his legs boxed her in. On the road, it had been just a quick sponging, quick buckets to wash face and hair. Nothing like this and the sensation was instantly healing. Warm versus the cold that he would never not despise. He sighed and felt all of the dirt and anxiety of their journey wash off his body and into the water.

She mumbled something and he raised an eyebrow. If she was his, it was within his authority to demand and he knew she knew it, even if she had been royalty in her past life. But her insolence, the way she challenged him without flinching, made him only want her more. She’d escaped something, she’d fled to him as if he and his men could provide refuge and sanctuary and even with that, he doubted she’d let anyone call her a coward. If she could be his equal, his counterpart, then the mess they’d found themselves in might actually be some kind of destiny, something ordained by the gods.

The princess as his equal. Steve meditated on this as he reached forward to touch her cheek, his focus on how to get her to calm down and trust him. Her eyes widened but she leaned into his palm and he felt his heart like a hammer in his chest.

“I’m just going to take this,” he said as he moved his palm to her shift. Not that he didn’t mind the view, the way the white fabric clung to her body, but she shivered and he was mindful that it wouldn’t do to have her sick or uncomfortable if she was carrying his heir. “You won’t get fully clean otherwise.”

The princess nodded, chest heaving, as he pulled the wet garment over her head and discarded it on the floor. And then it was his turn to gasp.

He’d never had the chance to see her in her natural state, even though he’d bedded her, and yet she took his breath away. She was pale but not sickly and he hardened just at the sight of her breasts, full and preparing for milk already, and her nipples, visible just above the water line. Reaching out to touch one, letting his thumb graze gently over, he considered what she might look like in a few months, those same nipples dark like a target for a hungry little mouth.

She looked down and he reached for the soap, causing her to flinch.

“It's just soap,” he explained gently. “Surely you had that where you are from.” Careful not to use the word ‘home' because he was her home now.

“Soap,” she nodded, closing her eyes as he ran the bar up one arm. “ _мыло._ ”

“Mylo,” he repeated, creating lather on her skin. He continued, carefully running the soap over her collarbone, the other arm, his free hand moving to her ankle.  He'd heard that they bathed less frequently in other kingdoms and he wanted it to be good for her, more than just about getting clean.

His hand moved up to her knee and she opened her eyes, eyebrow raised like she had caught him doing something he shouldn't.  Steve felt his cheeks burn and he stilled, hands frozen as he deliberated on what he should do next.

 _“не останавливайтесь,”_ she said, drawing her bottom lip in against her teeth. She pushed her chest out and moved her knee so that she was spread open and he realized that she was ordering him, possibly the way she might order a servant. He should have been turned off by it. He was the King, after all, and leader to men brutal enough to give her nightmares. And yet there she was, telling him in a language that he didn’t know that she was in control and that touching her was something he needed permission to have.

 _“нет,”_ he grinned, using her words against her. And then her eyes went wide at the shock that he would even say no at all and she splashed the water in impatience, suds landing on his beard as a result. He ignored her tantrum, instead pulling her close so that he could finish with her arms and her legs and especially her stomach, intentional to avoid all of the places he knew she wanted him to touch.

“Please,” she asked quietly, even desperately, shivering as he pulled a foot up to wash even there. Steve smiled into her foot, kissing the arch before putting it gently down. Even with her heavy accent, it was nice to hear her say something he understood and even better to hear her defer to him.

“Come here, _elskan mín_ ,” he said as he pulled her close, adjusting her so that she was straddling his lap. _Come here, my love_ , he said as he gave her the nickname he had always imagined giving his wife, the same words he’d heard his father give his mother.

“ _Lyubov moya,_ ” she murmured, moving to rest her forehead against his. The water had long since cooled and yet, his skin burned, hers suddenly flushed as she panted in his arms.

He ached, cock throbbing against his belly as she shifted her hips and yet, he hesitated. Even if he was hungry for her, hungry to feel her and to take her, she was in a fragile state and he didn't want to hurt her, to hurt the baby. Tossing soap aside, he reached between them and slid his palm against her mound, a finger sliding between her folds in a way he knew would be good for her.

His princess clung to his neck and shuddered as he pressed against the nub of nerves at the top, grinding herself greedily against him. The sounds she made, the way she dug her fingers into his neck, it was as though he owed it to her. As though he owed her pleasure, as though she could demand it. Steve knew his men would laugh, might even question his ability for it, but he couldn't dissuade her otherwise. She was a stowaway. A fugitive and he didn't want to think about how he would have to pay for harboring her.

But she was also the mother of his child, his successor.

He would challenge Odin himself to save her, would travel to the ends of the earth if she asked him to.

So caught in how she quaked in his arms, he hadn't expected to feel her hands between them, clumsy around his shaft.  It startled him and he grabbed her wrist on impulse. She stopped, brows furrowed as if she'd done something wrong until he thrust into her fist, unspoken encouragement.

“Easy,” he whispered, steeling himself so as not to spill into her hands so fast. She looked into his eyes, her own open wide with lust, and nodded. It struck him how young she was, she couldn't be older than James’ sister Rebecca, who he remembered as a girl playing with dolls. And yet here she was, also very much a woman, one whose new role was in serving him. In serving his _-and now their_ \- people. He thought for just a quick second about how she could have chosen better, and then was overcome with the fact that she had chosen him at all.

She had chosen. She had chosen escape and freedom and living in a strange land, no idea of what awaited her or what would be expected of her. And there she was, his cock in her hand, brave instead of shrinking back. As if to say that she was not only ready but that she wanted the life he offered her.

The princess reached with one hand to his chin, guiding his eyes to hers as if to tell him to stop thinking, to come back to her and the moment. Curling her fingertips against his beard, she brought his face closer and pressed his lips to hers. It caught him by surprise, the intimacy of her kiss, something they had never done before. It revealed a big truth, one that had Steve holding her tight against him. She was his, but he was also hers.

“ _Elskan mín_ ,” he cried into her mouth, overcome with emotion. She nodded, lifting her hips then, moving her hand in order to guide him into her warmth. It was awkward and slippery and she laughed, never taking her eyes away from his.

“ _Elskan mín_ ,” she repeated affectionately, wrapping her arms around his neck as she adjusted around him.  He kissed her again, kissed her lips and the salty sheen of sweat on her throat and shoulders, groaning with every rock of her hips. They shouldn't, not this way, because surely they’d hurt the baby, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care.

The water sloshed around them as she started moving, riding with him as he bucked his hips, as she started working on her own to bring them both to climax, and Steve lost himself. The sound of her ragged breath as she rode him, of water splashing the floor and echoing in the room, of his own heart beating in his ears. It was too good and he thought about how blessed he was, what he must have done to be so favored.

“ _Da_ ,” she cried into his shoulder before sinking her teeth in, and the unexpected pain was enough to push him over the edge, breathless as he finished inside her. He felt her clench around him, trembling in his arms, before collapsing, her breath hot in his chest.

They sat boneless in cold water and Steve wished he could keep them there forever, that he could cage up the moment and their innocence of all the consequences for her escape and his decision to keep her.  He tried to shut out what would happen, what the others would say and the implications of him taking a wife without following the rules. He would face anyone who questioned him, and yet he was weary for the battle he might have to fight to hold onto her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like posting translations but will say, according to Google:
> 
> было больно?- did it hurt  
> не останавливайтесь- don't stop


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fulfilling a prompt from @elcapitan-rogers for outdoor sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a loose idea of what is going on here, folks. Thanks to @elcapitan-rogers, @sunnie91, and @spanglecap for headcanon-ing and viking help. @spanglecap in particular for her help with things like what they would wear. And a thanks to amazon for allowing me to watch Vikings with my Amazon Prime membership. ~~I am not a viking historian, clearly, so again gentleness is appreciated across the board. I think I just wanted to write porn of beardy viking Steve. Let's not take it too seriously.~~  
>  ~~a certain part of this feels like something I've written before. I love it anyway.~~  
>  Wow that all comes off super defensive, unwarranted. Thank you to all who read my fics thank you thank you, like you dont even know how grateful I am for the overwhelmingly positive responses I've gotten. Thank you thank you.  
> Imma take a chill pill...

Alexander was not happy.

As an elder, someone who had fought in the wars with Steve’s own father, Steve generally trusted his instincts. Or at least respected them, even if he might not always agree. Alexander had been around long before Steve was even born. Even if he didn’t have the title, a number of the other men held him in high regard. Steve wasn’t naive enough to doubt for a second that some of those men were secretly more loyal to Alexander than to their King.

“Give me a logical reason for why you didn't send for someone to fetch her. For why you didn't take her back yourself?”

Steve had been reviewing the events of the village while they’d been away when he had hobbled in, weight resting on the cane he’d used for almost twenty years. His son, who had gone with Steve on the last raid, helped him to the bench at Steve’s right, and he sat quietly, twirling the tip of his beard as he prepared to offer his unwanted advice.

“There was no wedding,” Alexander said carefully.  His voice was weathered and gentle, the kind that told great stories but also the voice that didn’t hold back, that said things others might be afraid to say out loud.

Steve had anticipated his hesitation about the princess, if only because he might have reservations himself, if he’d been advising someone else in the same position. A union had to be brokered, negotiated. Steve had altogether bypassed these rules, put into place by Odin and it was like he was inviting disaster. Alexander himself had suggested several, almost as soon as Steve was old enough to take a wife, taking on the role of matchmaker because Steve’s own parents were no longer alive to do so.

“Not yet, no,” Steve said without hesitation. “But she is mine.”

“You could keep her,” Alexander nodded, lifting a sun-spotted hand so that his son could bring him a cup with something to drink. Steve narrowed his eyes but didn’t look his way, waiting for the catch. That was one of the reasons that Alexander was so cared for after all. Because even if he started off saying what sounded good, it was always followed with something painful.

“Even if you proceeded with a contract with the Carters,” Alexander continued. “No one would mind the King also keeping a beautiful woman on the side. I don’t even think Sharon would object.”

“She is my wife,” Steve interrupted, coolly.  “It’s done, Alexander.”

Alexander opened his mouth to speak, his eyes calculating, but they were interrupted by a knock at the door. James’ sister Rebecca poked her head in and Steve nodded his permission for her to enter, his heart in his throat because he had sent her to prepare the princess for the public

The sight of her nearly drove him to his knees and he knew he couldn’t hide the way he smiled. Couldn’t help it, least of all because she glowed, the reason for it still a secret between just the two of them. Rebecca had done a good job. Gone was the muddied gown she’d worn on the trip home, in its’ place nothing but red.

“She looks like the bride of Loki,” Alexander’s son whispered, though Steve pretended not to hear him. He thought it might be true, because the red apron and cloak she’d worn only made her hair even richer, as though flames of fire.  And if it was so, Loki also brought about change didn’t he? Rebecca had braided her hair, had added beads and an brocaded band to mirror a tiara. Steve decided he didn’t really care who was responsible or why, because she was there and he needed her.

“She is very beautiful. It is a good choice,” Alexander pushed himself up to stand so that he could walk over to her. He lifted the hand that Steve noticed was wearing his mother’s silver cuff and the princess stiffened, her eyebrow raised. She gave Steve a quick look and he nodded to tell her that the old man was harmless.

“I am sure that everyone will fight alongside you when they learn of your decision to marry a girl whose patronage is impossible to verify,” Alexander murmured, bending down to kiss her knuckles.

“My word is verification enough,” Steve took a step toward them. He didn’t miss her free hand, curled into a fist. He wondered how much she understood, if she understood then that her own heritage was in question. He’d found her with nothing, wouldn’t have known who she was if he hadn’t seen her with his own two eyes in the courtyard.

The old man looked over at him and nodded, patting her hand before he released it. “It is enough. You have our loyalty.”

Steve eyed the son, who’d stood straight alongside his father like a guard. There was a measured tension in the air, something of a threat even though Steve couldn’t quite figure out all of Alexander’s moves.

“Come on, Brock,” Alexander reached with one hand for his son’s arm. “Let’s leave the King and Queen. I’m sure they would appreciate some privacy.”

It was the truest thing that Alexander had said and Steve was relieved when he left so that he could fully appreciate how lovely she looked. She let out a shallow breath of her own and he smiled.

“Perfect, Rebecca, perfect,” he did his best to compliment James’ sister, who gave a quick curtsy. It might have been intimidating, least of all because the princess spoke in a language of garbled and guttural syllables, but Rebecca had taken her under her wing without question.  

“It was my pleasure, my Lord,” she said with a smile and a quick curtsy. “James would be the first to congratulate you.”

Steve reached for a golden medal, decorated with deep green stones, one that he had taken himself, and passed it to her. “It’s not enough, Rebecca, to show my appreciation.”

Rebecca scoffed, holding the medal against her chest. “Done freely. Freya’s blessing on you both.”

“Thank you,” he repeated again, signaling that she could leave.

When they were finally alone again, the princess’ shoulders relaxed and she smiled, reaching up to finger the beads that hung from her apron. She smiled as though she held a secret and he wished she could tell him.

“You look like a queen, _Elskan mín,_ ” he said proudly, because she did.

She turned around slowly before walking to stand in front of him, her face upturned for a kiss. “ _я выглядеть как кукла_.”

“We are going to have to start speaking the same language,” Steve sighed, looping one arm around her waist. “I have to be able to understand when you are laughing about me.”

The princess touched his lips and nodded, a smirk on her own, “ _губы._ ”

“Goo bih,” he grinned, kissing her fingertips, reaching to touch her own mouth. “Lips.”

“Lips,” she echoed, before putting his hand on her stomach.

“Yes, baby. And I hope he or she is well.”

“Well,” she nodded, moving his hand to her heart. “Natalia.”

“Heart,” he instructed. “That’s your heart.”

“ _нет_ ,” she smiled. “ _Your_ heart. Natalia.”

When he’d figured out what she was saying, he laughed. _Natalia._ He liked how his tongue brushed along the roof of his mouth when he said it. “Your heart is my heart, Natalia, though I am sure I don’t deserve it.”

Natalia pressed her palm to his chest and raised an eyebrow, and Steve wondered then if he would ever be enough for her. “Your heart is my heart…”

“Steve,” he said quickly and she laughed. He supposed his name sounded ridiculous and new but when she said it back to him, it sounded like music.

***

“This is home now,” he said when they had gone high enough up the hill for her to see down the valley, for her to see how blue the river was and how green the trees.  She was lucky to see it before winter, not the snow wasn't also hypnotic.

“Home,” she smiled, hand over the bump that only he noticed. And Steve felt good, blessed to provide for her and the baby, until he caught the tear that she wiped away when she thought he wasn’t looking. He had considered her home forsaken, its wilderness dark and deep and unknown. But it was what she knew. She’d seemed so anxious to stay with him and he was curious about why she would miss anything of her old life.

Alexander aside, Steve had introduced her without much controversy, at least to his face. A wedding feast had given him plenty of opportunity to observe anyone who might challenge her presence, who might say that he’d gone mad to take a wife who brought nothing tangible. There’d been some shock, a few raised eyebrows. Harrison Carter himself, daughter a step behind, had congratulated the newlyweds and promised a sacrifice to Freyja in their honor.  

And yet, there were whispers. The earliest whispers suggested she was pregnant, that he’d bedded her during a raid and that she was carrying his heir.  Those rumors, even if they suggested some doubt about honor and legitimacy, weren’t enough to act on, least of all because they weren't untrue.The whispers that she was a spy, on the other hand, were the ones that worried him. The idea that Natalia was part of a larger plan was laughable, even if he still couldn’t communicate enough with her to ever tell if she was capable of lies. The nonverbal truths- how fearful she’d been, how fiercely she held onto him at night, the way she flinched in the beginning when he touched her- those were the truths that convinced him that she was acting alone.

He’d given her protection and safety but he didn’t think he would ever stop wondering if she wished she could go back. It was something he thought about as she looked over the valley, as she met his eyes when he reached to run his thumb along the glistening tear-track on her cheek. She huffed, eyes moving down as though he was ridiculous to fawn over her, before pointing to the rows of pine and conifer they’d stopped near.

“Tree,” he explained.

She grinned, repeating the word back to him as she led him to a pine, it’s branches and needles high enough to provide a canopy that shielded them from the sky.

He thought about all of the words he wanted to teach her, the words that connected into sentences which then connected into stories. And then he thought about nothing because she crooked a finger that told him to come.  

A small voice in the back of his mind whispered all of the things that he’d heard, reminded him of what Alexander had only hinted at. She was harmless, just a girl. But what if she was dangerous? What if she was a spy, sent by her father to bring him down. He pressed himself against her, burying his face in her neck as though he was the one seeking soccoro from her and not vice versa. It couldn’t be possible, his thoughts raced slippery and fleeting like fish. She was the mother to his child, and even if that hadn’t been planned, he owed her everything for it. And that brought up the unique shift in power that he would never have expected, the one that had him nearly on his knees before her. Should he kiss her feet? If she asked for it, he would.

She murmured something in his ear, hand pressed to his chest and he heard Alexander’s words of loyalty. Would he give it all up for her? And what if he was challenged to the death- would he die for her? He grunted, seeking out her lips so that he could kiss her, to somehow communicate all that was at stake. And she kissed him back, matching his intensity. How could she not be made for him, he wondered, when she wasn’t afraid to fight back. She pulled his bottom lip in between her teeth and smiled, as though she’d won something. He didn’t want to stop to consider that maybe she had so instead he spun her around and pushed her back so that she was gripping the tree, his hand already reaching below her dress to nudge her legs apart.

There was a possibility that someone might find them, he supposed as he moved clothing away to push inside her, not that he would stop. She whimpered into her arm and moved to stand on her toes, and Steve half-hoped someone would find them. They must look like kids, him fucking into her so frantically, so undignified. Yet she was his and he wanted anyone who had any doubts know clear as day that he would. He would fight for her.

When he slipped out, she huffed out a shaky laugh and he turned her back around. He wanted to see her face, wanted to see her eyelids scrunch shut when she came.

“Lord,” she hummed, wrapping her arms around his neck and he shuddered. It was a new endearment and he could tell from the twinkle in her eye that she’d said it knowing it would stir something in him. Gripping her wrists, raising them above her head, he met her eyes and reached under her dress again.

“Yes, I am your Lord,” he said before kissing her, hands moving to her hips. When he lifted her, she yelped, lowering her hands to grab his shoulders as if afraid she would fall.  He stopped, lifting them back up gently. She responded with a nod, panting and bucking her hips forward, and he growled. The next time that he lifted her up, she held her arms above her head tight and he had no doubts she wouldn’t drop them. His thrusts were frantic, uncoordinated, and eventually desperate and he was so close, so close. She grit her teeth as her back hit the tree and at one point, he registered that she was grasping at the bark, pieces of it falling off as she scrambled for something to hold on to. But she trusted him enough to hold her. Even when he was crying into her hair and spilling inside her, she kept her wrists together and bound above her by an invisible cord.

Her submission was beautiful. He loved her for it.

Lowering her arms, he kissed her gently, affectionately. She whimpered into him, her skin still hot, and he laughed. Had she not also finished? She’d submitted to him and he was boneless for it but what kind of husband would he be if she wasn’t also satisfied. If she wasn’t satisfied, she’d leave or worse yet, the gods would take her from him. He shook his head and kissed her lips before kneeling at her feet, pine needles crackling and snapping against his weight.

Natalia raised an eyebrow and he grinned, hands on her ankles and sliding up her knees. “ _Elskan mín,”_  he purred, moving linen out of the way so that he could nuzzle his nose to her cunt. She laughed, her voice shaky and he thought he might die. _His. She was his_.

“Oh,” she whimpered when he parted her lips to lick and suck. She leaned forward into him just a little and Steve thought briefly that he could feasibly suffocate, not that he would mind or would stop. He wished there was a way to tell her how much she had over him, how powerless he was. She tasted like salt, briny and intoxicating and he knew when his tongue ran over the flood of liquid that he was tasting himself as much as her. The thought of it made him ache, made him almost ready again, and he laughed.

She trembled against his mouth, her tongue loose with whispers and endearments he didn’t understand, and he felt pride.

“Beautiful,” she touched his cheek, using the word she had undoubtedly heard so much. He  didn't know of she was talking about him or the experience or both, but he didn't much care. For her, he would be beautiful. For her, he'd be whoever she wanted, at least in the secret of the trees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Well, okay. 
> 
> я выглядеть как кукла- a very Google (and therefore very likely awful) translation of "I look like a doll".
> 
> I would like to add some lovely [fanart by @missingthebetterhalfofme](http://missingthebetterhalfofme.tumblr.com/post/140270534023) . it is amazing and I stared at my phone all day with heart eyes when I saw it.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> loose and fast with history :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who offered up ideas or support :) I hope you enjoy it.

Had she ever been on a boat? Steve didn’t think so, not the way that she skittered fingers along the oak as if it was silk. He watched as she walked the length of it, her smile pleased. The small ship, a wedding gift from Alexander, wasn’t big enough for more than small trips and he was already looking forward to when he could take her somewhere. A long trip, a faraway place. To the ends of the earth and back. 

“Come on,” he motioned toward the plank of wood placed between the boat and the pier. Natalia pulled up her dress and followed him, her expression wild and eager. Holding his hand, she walked carefully, one soft foot in front of the other across the board, until he could lift her up and place her on deck. She looked like a figurehead, standing at the bow with her hair in loose red curls that waved with the breeze. Rebecca had worked with her on a few braids, but he’d watched her fill the room with swears while undoing them at night, fingers stuck in the knots. Some days, she preferred just one long braid, the way her hair had been when he’d seen her hiding in his camp. He was sure he didn't care, though he was partial he supposed to burying his face in her curls.

He wondered if it would be a blessing or a curse, having her aboard the ship before the voyage even got started. 

A voyage he was reluctant to take.

***

_ “I can’t leave right now,” Steve protested without thinking, even though he knew that Earl Sitwell needed his urgent assistance. Sitwell, whose land was in the East and too close to the Russians, had fought off invasion but only just barely. Though his messenger said, in between hungry bites of food as though he hadn’t eaten in months, that the although Russians wouldn’t return, there was discord among the people.  _

_ “We’ve got nothing, Lord. No crops, no food. The people are talking about killing Earl Sitwell and his family just so they can eat.” _

_ “Well that’s ridiculous,” Alexander huffed, though Steve had waived for him to be silent. “Sitwell is skin and bones. He’d hardly feed anyone anyway.” _

_ Steve wrinkled his brow. At any other time, he wouldn’t hesitate. Sitwell was an ally, someone who was loyal to Steve without question. Even if he had few resources, he had men who Steve could count on to fight.  _

_ But leaving meant leaving Natalia. Leaving meant leaving the baby. Even considering it made his chest seize up, made his heart race.  _

_ For any other journey, in any other time, taking her with him would have been his first option. Holding her close at camp, where he could see her and return to her every day. A journey to Earl Sitwell wasn’t so long, it might even be romantic. In fact, it was almost suspicious not taking her, his new bride and moreover, the Queen.  _

_ “It’s wise to leave treasures guarded, under lock and key and the protection of the gods,” his advisor said, as if he was listening to Steve’s thoughts. “I am too old to join you in protecting Sitwell but I would lay my life down to protect Queen Natalia.” _

_ Steve trusted the old man would, though it was easy to do that because he was so sure that she’d be safe, would hardly need protection unless it was protection from a random spider. Even if she was fearless, or at least braver than her fears, there were hardly any dangers at home. He thought about the secret she carried, that they guarded so fiercely, and about his hands on her soft belly. He was light-skinned but she was even lighter, pale enough to look almost like a ghost, and the contrast of his palm against her fascinated him.  _

_ If he left, he’d have to confide in others. He’d tell Alexander, at the very least, but Rebecca should know, in case Natalia needed anything. Not much longer and he wouldn’t have to say anything at all, her belly would speak for itself. He ached to miss any of it. To miss watching her swell, to miss feeling the first kicks against his palm.  _

_ Steve considered sending someone in his place. Brock or any of the capable men who were ready and willing, except that the messenger had specifically asked for the King. It was Steve’s responsibility, and no one else’s. If he didn’t go, he showed weakness. Disregard for the favor of the gods.  _

_ If he didn’t go, he might as well invite someone to challenge his authority. That was a battle Steve couldn’t afford to fight.  _

***

“I have to leave,” he whispered into her hair as he pulled her close, her back against his chest as they watched the ripples of the sea together. He didn’t know if she would understand, even though she’d been working with Rebecca and Sharon on the language, even if they’d spent evenings exchanging vocabulary words. She was bright, as sharp as any man he’d met, and he had an idea she might be better at listening and understanding than actually speaking. (He also had an idea that this was on purpose, that she would pretend not to know or understand if it meant getting what she wanted).

He heard her smile and she reached for his hand, pressing it to her stomach. She didn’t say anything, didn't tell him to be careful or that she would miss him. He was grateful for that, grateful that she hadn’t opened the door for him to regret. It was a short trip and his duty. She’d do well to have the time to learn more about the town, about her own role as his wife and as the Queen. His chest tightened but he ignored it, focusing instead on the soft rocking of the boat and the gulls overhead. 

It wasn’t until later, when he was laying beside her, watching the sparks of the fire that the sense of foreboding returned. The room was quiet, save the crackle and pop and her breathing, and he again wished there was a way to negotiate staying behind with her. Perhaps they could wait. Sitwell could handle things for a season longer, surely. 

Steve looked over at his bride, red hair splayed over furs and eyes cast toward the fire, lost in her own thoughts. If it was really as bad as the messenger said, he’d have Brock leave right away. He would send every man he had if it allowed him to stay.

When he turned onto his side, pressing his lips to her shoulder, it occurred to him that he was selfish. 

Every kiss, from her shoulders to her throat, along the linen covering her stomach, reminded him of how ungrateful he was. The gods had entrusted him as king, in charge of protecting and  _ leading. _ Pressing his ear gently to the small bump, he listened, as if maybe the baby would be able to remind him that his place was out there, with his men. 

“Go,” she told him, her voice firmer than his resolve. He looked up. So she  _ had _ understood, on the boat. Natalia’s fingertips traced his shoulder, following the patterns now familiar to her, and he shivered, a knot in his throat rising because he couldn’t imagine what he’d do if something happened to her, to their child. 

Her fingertips walked over to his jaw and he watched her give him a small smile. “Go,” she repeated, and again Steve wondered again if all had been ordained after all for him to find her, to find someone who wouldn’t let him be anything less than the brave and valiant king he’d been born to be. 

He nodded before reaching for the dagger he’d always kept close, the one she’d stolen before. Heavy iron and not the most ornate of all that he had, but he realized he should have given it to her sooner.  Wrapping her fingers around the wooden hilt, he met her eyes. 

“It's sharp. Don't think twice.” 

Her eyes went wide at first and he watched her chest rise and fall, perhaps as she parsed what he’d said into her own language. But then she nodded, tipping her chin up to kiss him. 

“ _ Da _ ,” she said in a low voice and Steve sighed, hoping she would never have to use it.  

The fire crackled again and he kissed her again, deeper and hungrier than before, as though every kiss was a plea, to her and any god who would listen and take pity.  _ Be safe, let her be safe, _ he wished with every kiss. He felt immature, like a child afraid of the dark, but she arched her body to him and let him worry anyway.

Steve slid a thigh between her legs, rolling over so that he was above her, her face in his hands. 

“I won’t be long. I’ll return before the baby is born and you’ll have Rebecca and Sharon, and I’m sure if you need anything, Alexander will make sure it’s provided.”

Natalia nodded, turning her head to kiss one of his wrists. “Go.”

“We haven’t had any trouble. No one has tried invading since I was a child. It’s safe here,” he said calmly, assuring himself more than her. He ran a hand to her thigh, pushing her shift up so that he could grip the warm skin. It occurred to him, as he pressed his fingers against the muscle, pulling her close, that he ought to leave a mark on her creamy skin to remind her and anyone else that she was his. 

“ _ Da _ , my Lord,” she breathed into his arm, her voice almost a whimper. Steve parted her legs and moved between them, noting with pleasure how instinctive it already seemed for her to wrap them around his waist. When he pressed his erection against her, she bucked her hips and again, Steve wondered if he was mad to leave her. 

“Do you know how to use it? To go for the throat here,” he touched her skin, from her ear toward her jugular. She swallowed, her eyes dark like stones, and he let his hand move down between her breasts to her ribcage. “Here is okay. Or anywhere. Fight like hell.”

Natalia grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down, her lips and tongue silencing him long enough that he could stop thinking. And then she squeezed her thighs, pushing him back until he was on his back and she was above him, her face triumphant as though she’d won something. It took his breath away, watching her above him, face flushed and hair like a crown of flames that he couldn’t help grip. She pushed down, a hand on his chest, and brought the other hand to his throat. 

“ _ Da _ , Steve, I know,” she said, an eyebrow raised, and he looked down to see the hand against his throat holding the dagger, the tip of the blade on his chin as a warning.  Steve took in a deep breath, his hand darting to her wrist but not moving her away. 

If she wanted to, she could kill him. It was curious, he thought as he groaned, as he grabbed her hip with his free hand and bucked his hips into her. Perhaps that had been the plan all along? If a sacrifice was needed to ensure the safety of his child, to ensure her safety, he’d go willingly. And he was hard,  _ so hard _ , and suddenly desperate for her even as she dragged the tip of his dagger along the circles and knots tattooed onto his skin. 

Natalia followed every gentle press of the blade with her lips, sweeping the knife down across his chest and back up to his cheek. He listened as her breath grew ragged, watched with desire and shock as she moved a free hand between her legs to his cock. He’d never known her to feel dangerous, only ever as someone who needed him and his protection. 

“ _ Lyubov moya _ ,” she purred, and Steve’s heart raced. “Go. I am safe. The baby?  _ Safe _ .”

“Safe,” he echoed and she pushed her body down, rocking her hips just slightly and increasing the pressure. Steve cried out, the unspoken message that she was more than capable, that she needed him to have confidence in her. “Alright, Natalia.”

Satisfied, she tossed the dagger aside, letting it fall on the dirt floor below them with a soft thump so that she could take his face in her hands and kiss him, breasts and belly pressing against him and reminding him of all that he feared losing. He wanted her, feeling hot and feverish and like she was the only remedy, and he couldn’t pull himself out of his trousers fast enough. It was like he couldn’t breathe, underwater, and she seemed just as frantic, moving up so that he could guide himself inside. 

When they made love, they didn’t talk. In the beginning, they wouldn’t have understood each other anyway. And now, even though they had enough words between them to make sense, she was so good at anticipating what he needed. When traced circles along her skin, ghosting his hand over gooseflesh, she told him in sighs and hums that he could read her too. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve would make a horrible viking. At least my Steve would.
> 
> side note: I'm 80% sure that the next chapter will be Nat's pov.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags and feel free to nope out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Was awful. Mind the tags and feel free to nope out. I really struggled with this, and hemmed and hawed, though it's something I've thought of since the beginning. I had both @elcapitan_rogers and @myloveiamthespeedofsound beta most of this for feels, though they didn't see Steve's pov down, which is when things are awful (which, actually this whole chapter is awful). 
> 
> I really hope this is well-received. It was fucking hard to write but also something that I thought was necessary and not gratuitous. I can promise this, that I wouldn't end it this way. I can also promise that this is kind of... Vikings? In the spirit of things that go down in that show and feasibly in that time period. I wanted a reason to bring Steve and Natasha together and to edify them and there are a lot of ways I could have done that but this one seemed the best. I also really wanted a bad ass Natasha who takes no shit, which I hope I've at least set the groundwork for. I imagine one or two updates after this, with much happier things.
> 
> As always, I am learning about vikings and the early rus as I go. 
> 
> ah I hate all of this.

Natalia Alianova Romanova was six years old when she was betrothed to her cousin, Alexi Shostakov. Alexi’s father was the captain of the King’s guards and, as the oldest, he was groomed to follow that legacy. Neither was given a choice and when she was six, the fact of her betrothal was far away and meaningless. She had lessons in Greek and embroidery and long afternoons playing with Zoti, her dog, and daydreaming about imaginary worlds and people who lived on the other side of the woods.  She would make a great mother, her sons would do great things. That is what they said, but she was too busy making up languages that only her little dog understood.

When her mother died, she put on a brave face and remembered quiet lullabies in secret. The Princess was brave, after all. The Princess was too proud to cry.

When her older brother died, casualty of conflict with wolves in the forest, she put on black and kept silent. He would have been the next in line. As the only child left, Natalia would have been the next natural choice had she not had the bad luck to be born female. It was as though the family of her betrothed had suddenly won the Holy Father’s favor, Alexi suddenly more powerful even before marriage.

They were not close. Nursemaids protected her, hiding her and hiding her virtue because the future Queen’s purity must be nearer to the blessed Virgin Mother, her heir proof of the Lord’s grace and providence. She knew of him, heard whispers of her future husband, who was strong and smart and undoubtedly powerful. As a child, these whispers went in one ear and out the other.

It was cold, the castle drafty and haunting, on the day that she met her husbands, the one she was tied to since the beginning and the one she chose.

In the months prior, she’d been in preparation. The wedding was soon and so she had to brush up on everything she needed to know in order to be a wife- the right prayers to say, the right stitches to sew, the meals that Alexi preferred, not that she herself would ever cook them. Her nursemaids lit candles for God’s blessings over her womb. When she asked them for clarification on how she was supposed to have an heir when she’d never properly spoken to her future husband, she got an eyeroll and a genuflect. Not that she didn’t have an idea, she’d seen horses mate as a girl.  

Natalia was not interested in heirs or husbands or threading needles or learning the proper prayers. She was not interested in Alexi or his family or sitting beside him while he ruled in her father’s place. She was not interested in becoming queen. When she peeked out of her window and imagined the world beyond the taiga, the pines and the darkness, she thought about escape. Living with Zoti amongst the bears.

This was a fantasy she kept secret. Who could she tell? To her nurses, it was a sin to be anything less than grateful for her future. She saw her father only during the Great Feasts, when she sat beside him and smiled at the people and held her tongue out for the Eucharist.  It was nearly a sin to speak to him even, or so she sometimes believed, and so she wouldn’t dare complain. Zoti listened and snorted in agreement when she scratched his ears and whispered that things would be different if she’d been born a boy, but he was just a dog and didn’t really know how scary it was.

A week before her wedding, the Northmen arrived. The gossip that she pretended not to hear was that they were savage. Heathens who didn’t believe in God, who worshipped Baal and did blood sacrifices when they arrived at the doorstep to the Kingdom. Someone said the leader, golden-haired like a lion, wore the skin of a bear. She overheard a page say that the soldiers yelled and blew trumpets and it sounded as though Satan himself had come.  Natalia overheard scattered talk about chickens, cows, and women being stolen in the night- the latter causing her nurses to wail.

If she was honest, Natalia found the entire invasion exciting. She lay in bed at night and imagined meeting men who drank blood and wore bearskins. She wondered, if she chopped off her hair with a knife and rolled in the soot of the fireplace, could she pretend she was a Northman? Could she escape? She’d have to leave Zoti behind, she decided, because little dogs were likely no match against heathens. But she might be able to risk it, at least to escape the Kingdom and being Queen and being a wife whose only purpose was carrying heirs.

They came to meet her father, the Northmen, on the Feast of the Elevation of the Holy Cross. The air smelled of incense and pirogis and fish and fear. Natalia was not allowed to sit at her father’s side this time, for her safety and to protect her virtue, and she watched from the small windows in the halls as they arrived.

They were quieter than she’d expected. A small team of men, maybe twenty, clip-clopping on big horses. They were big and imposing, each man covered in furs, some with shaved heads that betrayed wicked designs right on their scalps, some with long beards, and all with their hands on their swords and amused eyes. They looked smug, she thought, as they rode in. Suspicious and haughty and clueless, clearly, because they did snarl at the people who stood by and watched them ride in. She thought they were likely drunk. Her heart pounded through her chest, the sound of it so loud in her ears and she watched for the supposed leader, half expecting something ferocious and ugly and terrifying. A hound of hell.

He was easy to identify, getting off his horse and taking long strides to Alexi’s father. Her future in-law nodded and she watched him wipe away the perspiration from his brow as he spoke. They were all anxious for the Northmen to leave, to go before they caused too much damage, before the Kingdom lost too many of its’ resources. Much of the pressure was surely on Shostakov as the first face of the King. She should, she knew, be praying for her father-in-law. But he looked nervous when speaking to the the leader of the Northmen and that made her laugh.

She hadn’t laughed loud and even if she had, there was no way anyone beside Zoti and the Saints would have heard her from her little window so high up, her calves aching as she stood on her toes to peek out. No one should have heard her and yet when she laughed, the leader of the Northmen looked her way and met her eyes and she thought she saw the corners of his mouth turn up.

Natalia gasped, ducked down and looked around to make sure that the nurses hadn’t realized this transgression. She was still a maiden, even if not for much longer, and who even knew what level of sin it was for a heathen to see her. She’d have to do penance for just that one look, the start of his smile as he saw her sin itself. If he saw her again, she thought with her breath uneven, would it be enough to regard her as completely unworthy? Unworthy to be Queen, unworthy to be married. The Lord might punish her, or at least the nurses might tell her she was going to be punished, but if the wedding was called off, perhaps they were all wrong anyway?

Natalia stood back on her toes and peeked again, this time watching as the leader spoke to the men behind him in a hushed voice. His hair was long like a woman’s and she thought she saw a plait- she almost laughed again at that novelty but she bit her lip and kept silent. Did he do that himself, she wondered? There were no women present, no woman to run her fingers through his hair, and Natalia imagined clumsy male fingers on hair. He didn’t look so much like a lion or a bear, she decided, musing that of course everyone was just believing a story. The same furs her own people wore, even if decorated differently.  Trousers and boots and a beard not so different from what she saw all the time, though members of court preferred to keep hair trimmed and careful. She watched his pink lips as he spoke, his voice heavy with sounds she couldn’t recognize.

He was fascinating.

Alexi’s father interrupted, no doubt to offer some bribe or payoff to encourage them to leave, and the Northman looked up again, eyes meeting hers. Natalia inhaled but this time she didn't look away, no matter how weak her knees felt. He said something again to Shostakov, who followed his gaze toward her window. Natalia hoped he was telling the leader who she was, and that she was being introduced as Princess and not as Alexi's fiance.  

She wasn't covered or chaperoned and when Shostakov frowned, she knew she was in trouble. She felt bold, excited, and curious- what could anyone even do, she rationalized, if she was the future queen. A lecture, some disapproving looks.

A clammy hand over her mouth as hands dragged her out of bed that night was not the punishment she could have ever anticipated. Before she could scream for help, she was slapped so hard across the cheek that her teeth rattled. Guards, who may as well have been faceless to her, gripped her arms and looked straight forward, almost as if their brains had been melted away. Small mercies that they weren’t looking at her shift, the irony that she was so exposed when she spent so much of her time veiled not lost on her.

“You are unworthy,” Shostakov growled and she tried to plead with him or beg mercy with her eyes, stinging from tears that she refused to let fall. “The wedding is in a week and the entire kingdom is whispering that my son is marrying a whore…”

“My father is the King, how dare you even be here?” she hissed, hoping for more venom in her voice than pain, the grip on her arms too tight and unyielding even when she twisted.

“Your father is a puppet, answering to me,” Shostakov answered calmly. “I’m the one protecting the Kingdom from invasion…”

“He can still cut off your head for this,” Natalia argued, though she wasn’t so sure. She’d barely spoken two words to her father, more of a commodity to him instead of flesh and blood. Shostakov moved close enough to her that she could smell the sweat, could see the same perspiration she’d seen earlier, proof that he was threatened as much by her as by the Northman earlier that day.

Shostakov slipped his gloves off and smiled, something about it making her skin crawl. “Your father knows, princess. He sent me here to correct you. And do you know what he said?”  

Natalia didn’t know, when the Captain of her father’s guards punched her and kicked her while she was down, if her father had actually said anything. But she remembered the words nonetheless.

 _Do not prostitute thy daughter, to cause her to be a whore; lest the land fall to whoredom, and the land become full of wickedness._

The Holy Father, she decided, was a story and she was done believing.

She didn’t wait. When they left her, coughing and her lungs on fire on the floor, she put her ear to the cold tile and listened until the castle was again quiet. She’d been given very few choices in her life. When she slipped out of her room, past her snoring nurses, and along the drafty hallways toward the cold air, she knew she’d be stopped. That she could die for betraying the duty given to her since she was a child, to marry and be royal and live with men who did not think twice to beat her so long as no one touched her pretty face.

It wasn’t that she’d rather die, she thought weakly as she clutched her side and tried to walk as inconspicuously as possible. She might be delirious or irrational but she couldn’t breathe one more minute in that castle and if she could just get to the godless heathens, they might at least use her as the worthy sacrifice, even if her father and his men were convinced she was not.

She waited for her father to chase after her. She waited for punishment, for guards and public humiliation. Even that night when she held the dagger and held her breath as the man she would eventually chose with her whole heart furrowed his brow and tried to decide what to do with her, even then she waited for recompense.

The Northman, the one who should be a living nightmare, looked at her as though she was a gift. He tucked her against him when it was cold and didn’t force her to do anything- to leave, to lay with him, to be anyone other than who she was. She didn’t know who she was but she waited for her father to come get her and when he didn’t come, she saw the Northman as the key to her new life. She decided that this mercy was not from the Holy Father, that it had to be the Holy Mother who had spared her. It had to be a woman who would look so kindly on her and let her find him, whose lips lit her body on fire and whose entire presence made her feel surefooted and safe.

When the King didn’t come for her, she buried sadness as if burying herself. She thought about Zoti or her room or the combs and tiaras and jewels she’d been given of her mother’s. Those things were gone and buried, replaced with new treasures given to her as the Northman’s wife.

The prayers and candles had done their purpose after all, she’d thought when she realized she must be carrying his child. That first time, when he’d taken her, his eyes so dark and his breath ragged and the only surprise being how much it hurt or how good she’d felt to have his hands on her. She would have called herself his slave if he’d asked, her heart so much his for sheltering her and then for the life growing inside her. She felt indebted.

She also felt alive.

Tracing the serpents on his shoulder, letting him trace invisible patterns on her skin as her legs wound around him, their skin slick and glowing against the firelight. This, she thought, must have been why she was born. To be fearless, shameless even, as he held her and kissed away memories of old sadness.

She would have loved him even as they wandered, when he came back to camp covered in dirt and blood, the copper smell sometimes making her heart race and the ache between her legs undeniable. She would have loved him not knowing that she’d married another King. And when he brought her to the village and she looked around at all that he said was now hers, she imagined again that perhaps it was a Mother ensuring her survival after all.

Natalia sat beside Rebecca and Sharon on the throne as Queen in a land she did not know, listening to people speak in a language she was only beginning to understand a smattering of words to. The women sat beside her as her guides, her translators while her husband was away, able-bodied men gone with him on what he had said would be a short journey. Rebecca and Sharon sat beside her but not as her maids, not like before because they didn’t admonish or whisper judgments. As women who might be friends, a novelty that Natalia found curious. Relationships she’d never in her life been privileged to have, save a tiny dog or dolls when she was younger.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever fit and in the back of her mind she still wondered if her father’s men would ride up to collect her, if her husband would fight them off if she asked. She knew she didn’t fit, her hair too red and her skin too pale. Most kept their eyes to the ground, wouldn’t dare speak up against Steve for the decision to take a foreigner as his wife, even more one who wasn’t _Viking_ , the new word she’d learned for their belief in gods of thunder and the sun and every other living thing.

When she took her seat as the Queen, most knelt at her feet and saw her for who she was, someone who had judicial and executive power to solve conflicts in the King’s place.  She listened to neighbors who accused one another of theft. She used short words and her hands to talk to her companions, Rebecca, who seemed to read her mind and Sharon, who seemed to have a good ear for things unsaid.

It felt so delicate and careful, sitting on the throne but making sure she gave her kindest and most gentle smiles. However she ruled, she had to be careful that she ruled as if Steve was there, that she minded the politics and the fact that she was still very much an outsider.

The old man, the one with silver hair who made her husband's eyes narrow, came by when she was ready to retire and spoke kindly with her in words she didn’t understand. She picked out pieces but she was careful not to nod lest she find herself agreeing to something without realizing.  He was important and when he spoke, everyone listened, and something about that reminded her of her past, of Shostakov.

Natalia tried not to think about the parallels, tried not to worry when she lay in her bed and rubbed the small bump of her belly. Instead, she pressed her cheek to the fur blanket and pretended she could still smell her husband, loneliness creeping in when she let it. In the dark, her husband’s dagger close, she let herself think of all she’d lost and missed but also all that was hers because she’d chosen it.

“He’s gone,” the old man told her, his staff thumping on the floor as he slid inside her room one morning. “But you have the baby.”

Natalia stiffened, her stomach responding to the memory of the last time an old man had cornered her alone. Even with a kind face, she knew he was dangerous, the hair on her arms standing up and her throat closing. She fumbled for the words to tell him he should go, that she was the Queen and he didn’t belong in her room- the room she shared with Steve- that this would only raise more suspicions about her intentions.

For someone so old, someone who usually required assistance walking around, he was fast. Fast and strong, pressing her against the table and his hands on her arms so that she couldn’t move. “We can work together,” he said and she couldn’t think about what that even meant because her brain had stopped working.

“Go,” she ordered, hoping he’d hear the authority in her voice over the panic. “ _Yходи́те_.”

“If you are here to take what’s mine, at least let me try to form an alliance with you,” he rasped, moving a trembling hand to her breast.

Natalia froze, tongue-tied and incredulous. This was her punishment, this was the possession of old ghosts coming to collect for her escape.  She’d believed her father would never look for her but he had found a way, hadn’t he? Not in the flesh but embodied in yet another man who thought she was movable, someone that could be taken and used, an easy conduit to the King. She prayed he would die, that lightening would strike him down before he could steal anything of hers that belonged to Steve. Steve, who’d been nothing but kind, who owned her heart, and who would have every right to discard her if he knew.

It made her sad, and sad especially for her husband, that a man he’d trusted was so obviously false. Kingdoms were Kingdoms and men were men, she realized. Even here, there was always someone who wouldn’t think twice before usurping power. She told him to go again, this time begging him and visions of her new, good life in flames when the King came home.

She was spared that morning by Rebecca, announcing her arrival by yelling at the children outside to quiet down. The old man stepped back, nodding politely before dragging his cane to the door.

“Odin curses the King for bringing you.” Even though he said it softly, she flinched, hoping she’d misunderstood his words.

When Natalia was a child, her destiny had been decided for her. She was more pawn than person, born to join families and further the Kingdom. When she’d seized the opportunity to escape, she’d taken the chance for rebirth. The baby in her belly was more than new life, it was proof of her own choices, and she couldn’t bear the possibility that someone else might take that from her.

She couldn’t bear the idea of losing Steve. He was kind and gentle and she loved him the way she supposed she should love God. When he held her and talked to her, when he took her to the mountains and told her that all he had was hers, she felt venerated. Whether or not she believed in Thor or Odin or any of the gods he talked about when he kissed her belly or twirled her red hair in his fingers, she believed they’d been brought together for a reason.

Natalia, born a princess and married to a Viking King in a land she did not know but loved with all her heart, was not going to let anyone take what she had from her anymore. Not her father. Not Shostakov. Not an old man who looked at her like she was taking something from him, who had insulted both her and Steve by suggesting that she was anything other than loyal.

She slept with the dagger in her hand from then on, her prayers to the Virgin Mother and any god listening her husband would be swift and that he’d return home safely.

It was when Rebecca rubbed her hands over Natalia’s small belly, squinting with concern and whispering, that Natalia thought again of what the old man had told her. She asked Rebecca to tell her about Odin. The Allfather, she learned with bitterness. The same god that had caused her so much trouble and heartache before, only this time he’d at least lost an eye for all his interference. It was a realization that made her lightheaded and weak, too weak to sit, too weak to do much of anything except lay in her furs and wish for her husband. Her belly began to swell, stretches and twinges telling her that she was not alone, that their baby was keeping her strong. She waited for quickening, her palm patient, and sang her mother’s lullabies softly when she didn’t think anyone was listening.

Rebecca fed her bread with honey and warm ale and helped her lay down, telling her that Odin was wise and benevolent, and more importantly, that he was influenced by Freya, who loved mothers and babies.  This sounded familiar and comforting. Natalia breathed deep and dreamed of her husband, his shield in one hand and a sword in the other as he ran through golden fields with his men.

***

The boat rocked gently with the water and Steve looked over his tired men before closing his eyes, his thoughts on home. On Natalia. On the child growing inside her.  On the way she fit against him in the quiet of the night, the nocturnal sounds of the animals outside and the wind blowing through mingling with her soft breath as an anchor that kept him feeling alive and like his life finally had meaning.

He'd gone begrudgingly, even though she’d all but pushed him onto the boat, and he was glad he’d gone. The situation with Sitwell was easy enough to handle, it was easy enough to intervene, bringing enough food to get the village by until they got on their feet again. He’d left Sam behind, with the good faith that someone would help Sitwell regain his footing, with the knowledge that he’d left someone behind with enough competence to pull together the men in the event of an invasion or coup.

Steve could have stayed longer.  As the King, perhaps he should have, except that he couldn’t. He wondered, as the boat drifted on it’s course, if there was an invisible tether pulling him home, pulling him away from his duty and back to her.

When he fell asleep, he dreamed of Sif, with her long, golden hair, sitting on the beach, eyes looking his way as if waiting for him and his men to return. Waiting for her husband to return, surely, and Steve hoped that meant that Thor had been guarding his journey all along. But then she turned and Steve saw that she wasn't alone.  A man walked up and stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder like it belonged there. This man had a white beard, that much Steve could see, though his face was shielded by the hood of his cape.

It's a sign, Steve thought, to see the gods waiting for his return. He raised his arm to wave and Sif nodded, as if welcoming him home.

But then she stood and turned to the man behind her, wrapping her arms around his neck like she would her husband.  When she pressed her lips to his, Steve’s heart raced and he clamored to the edge of the boat to get a better look. This was not Thor, this felt wrong, thick with betrayal that was like a heavy cord around his throat. When she pushed the hood back, he shook his head in confusion. Her lover was missing an eye, the space where it belonged only a scarred pit.

Steve couldn't understand what it meant, why Odin would betray Thor, why Sif would betray her beloved while he was away, why it was revealed to him. He shouted but no sound came out. Her golden hair painted red, slowly as if absorbing the new color like paint, and Steve couldn't bear to look anymore.

The gods were merciful and this was when he awoke, visions of a red-haired goddess in the arms of her father-in-law still sharp, the sound of the sea disorienting because he couldn't tell immediately if he was still asleep or not. Until he heard someone snore and looked around, his men sleeping deeply, quite possibly about their own homes.

They drifted until morning, when the sight of the shore was in view. Everyone stood on their feet and watched, excited and relieved, to come home to wives and children and fathers and mothers and land. He looked as the people began to line the shore, looked for Natalia, his stomach in his throat because he needed some kind of confirmation, some visual proof that Sif wasn't showing him something, that his wife was faithful and true.

When they paddled in to the docks, he searched for her.

Gripping the edge of the boat so hard he thought it might crack, Steve searched for her, feeling desperate and vulnerable because he couldn't see her.

He watched as men jumped out of the boat, impatient for the docks and willing to get soaked just so they could hold their loved ones. The few that stayed behind laughed and cheered as they picked up the slack and rowed the boat in.  It was loud and triumphant and wonderful.

The crowds parted long enough for Steve to see Rebecca, her face tight and brow furrowed, lips in a straight line and her focus entirely on Steve. Her look went straight to his heart and he jumped out without a second thought, his only concern why the Queen was not beside her.

“And Natalia?” he cried out and Rebecca flinched, rushing to meet him, only making him panic more. “Rebecca, where is she? Rebecca, where is my wife?”

“Queen Natalia,” she stuttered. “And the baby...”

Steve stopped hearing, stopped listening, his legs in a stumble-run to their home. He knew Rebecca was on his heels, he hardly cared because the tether to Natalia was tight and he had to see her. He must have looked like a berserker, yelling for Natalia, sliding across the mud and crashing into the door.

“Natalia,” he called, breathless and frantic, and he knew when Sharon appeared in the doorway, white apron soaked red and wringing her hands, that everything was horribly wrong.

If she’d been pale before, she looked nearly translucent.

And the blood.

The blood, which tinged the air with copper. He thought maybe he’d stop breathing to see it, like a massacre, like a blood sacrifice except that it wasn't at all...

Steve couldn’t speak, wanted to drop to his knees but he made it to her side, her eyes wide like a frightened animal’s, and when she saw him, she started sobbing. Steve, who had seen men torn apart limb from limb, would never forget the sound, imprinted forever like a tattoo. He climbed into the bed beside her and when she burrowed her face in his shoulder, her body trembled, bloodied hands clinging to his furs.

“ _Elskan mín,_ the baby, what…” he couldn’t say anything it out loud, didn’t need her to say it either because the room- their room where they held each other and whispered and loved- was silent, the one crying a mother but not her child.

“Alexander,” he heard Rebecca say behind him and he turned to see her, holding fresh cloth for dressing, for cleaning.  

“Alexander?” Steve repeated, at first not able to match the name with anything relevant. Natalia stiffened, said some quick words in her own language, and he remembered. Alexander, his friend, who was too old to fight and so had stayed behind as his eyes over the town, over Natalia even though she’d promised she and the baby were safe. “Where is he?”

“In fetters, tied to the tree behind the Carter farm,” Rebecca spat. “I don’t know if he’ll last long enough for a trial, he looked awfully pale the last time I checked.”

“Pale?” Steve asked, reaching to touch the tearstains on Natalia’s cheeks. She was perfect and his and so pale and he hated himself for leaving her, for not protecting her exactly as he’d promised to do. And he hated the gods, hated Freja for not providing and Sif and Odin for the message they’d sent him, one he didn’t fully understand.

“The queen nearly killed him,” Sharon said plainly. “And it’s a shame she didn’t.”

***

The second time the old man came to her room, she was ready. She offered him a glass of water and when he grabbed her wrist, giving the same smile that made her nauseous, she smiled back, the dagger heavy in her apron pocket.

“It is too easy,” he said, the wrinkles in his eyes scrunching up. “I knew it would be easy. The King is young and stupid and I’ve been waiting for him to make mistakes. But bringing you here? The people already think you are a spy.”

“ _Predatel_ ,” Natalia answered. _Traitor_.

His fingers were cold, skin weathered and cracked, and he walked them up her forearm. “I can’t decide what to do with you. If something happened to you, everyone would be happy. _Grateful.”_

Her quarters- the King’s quarters- were quiet and she listened to the sound of the gulls outside, children playing because it was a warm day and most of the work was already done. She wanted him to die for even thinking of betraying Steve, for his ingratitude.

When Shostakov had beat her, in that lifetime ago, she’d been too surprised to do anything. When Alexander, her husband’s advisor and supposed friend, pushed her against the table again, a hand gripping her hair and kicking her feet apart, he laughed. She was not surprised.

“Bringing you was his biggest downfall,” the old man whispered in her ear. “Even after you die, I have enough to challenge him now.”

She thought she heard trumpets in the distance and thought of people and celebrations. The trumpets, she remembered, had played on the day she’d first seen the Northmen. It had been a cold day, right before her wedding, and she’d been excited to see them, so excited she could barely breath when she heard the loud noise announcing to the kingdom that they were arriving. Announcing the change in her life, she thought ruefully and then her heart started skipping and she wondered if they were announcing an arrival right then and there? If someone was arriving just as she was being pushed, belly down, into a table by an old man who was so loved that he would undoubtedly be celebrated for killing her.

Her hand closed around the knife handle in her pocket and she shut her eyes tight. He could try but in the end, he’d forgotten that she was pregnant, that she had good reasons to fight.

“Are you ready,” he said, hand gripping her throat.

She prayed to the Freya and to the Holy Mother before opening her eyes, her voice calm. “Are you?”

“What?” Alexander asked, almost laughing and she thought maybe she’d gotten the words wrong or misheard him, not that it mattered. The horns got louder and she thought she heard footsteps, he must have heard them too because he moved, looked away long enough that he relaxed his hands.

 _Stupid_ , she thought, taking advantage of the lapse in judgment to twist so that she could draw the dagger out and thrust forward. _Stupid old man._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to @sunnie91 who was the first to say this was worthy and who also gave me the idea of god-cameos.
> 
> Eta: [ beautiful amazing art by @sunnie91](http://heyfrenchfreudiana.tumblr.com/post/143220741329/sunnie91-go-she-reached-for-his-hand) it's so prettyyy i want it framed


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the tags, this is so sad and whumpy and also heyyy lactation kink (kind of). 
> 
> in my mind, this ends happy and with maybe one or two more chapters.
> 
> ***  
> So, I've never experienced this level of loss but my heart breaks for anyone who has.

Her husband named him Unn, for he was beloved even if the gods had denied him the chance to live and fight on earth. When he told her, she blinked, staring at the pattern of the knots and lines on the wood of the walls, the name hitting her like cold air. She’d wanted to name him Volya, a good Russian name, for the freedom she’d earned while carrying him, or at least that’s what she’d thought when she could still feel him kick.  And then she didn’t care if he had a name at all, her insides frozen cold and her heart even colder. 

He didn’t push her, didn’t make her come when he went with the Viking priest, only smoothed her hair with his palm, clasping her hands together in his like she was cold so that he could kiss the tips of her fingers and whisper that he loved her, words that hurt only because who was she to take them, greedy and undeserving. She closed her eyes and swallowed the pain in her throat, not asking where he was taking Unn, what Vikings did with the remains or where they thought souls went. He sighed, looking up at her with blue eyes she couldn’t meet, and she thought about David and Bathsheba and their poor baby, taken too soon as a consequence for their sins. She thought of Bathsheba, long-suffering. The whore who seduces the king, that’s the story men for generations had given her, wasn’t it? And then Natalia thought of Bathsheba, weeping for all she’d lost and for all of the ways she’d been used by men. 

They were sisters, her and Bathsheba, doing penance for sins.

Natalia didn’t weep even as she ached. The cramps that continued after the birth, the swell of her breasts and leak of milk as though her body was confused by what had happened.  Rebecca brought her brews of mint and sage for relief that she refused, perhaps because she wanted to suffer. Perhaps because she was just as confused as her body.  She wanted the pain, wanted the ache and the residual bleeding and all of the signs that she was a mother. They were all she had left and she was greedy for them. She tried to tell herself that the suffering was discipline, that through pain she earned grace. But the truth was that the pain was also the tie to her son, the tether that kept her to the ground. 

The old man died, tied to a tree with an axe in his head. No one said anything when it happened and no one claimed the tool or the body.  The axe, according to one of the servants, was the King’s, the one curved at the top and wrapped with steel, the one already blood-stained from the raids.

_ The old man was harmless and benevolent _ , she heard someone say.  _ He was murdered, not by the King but by his foreign Queen.  _

Natalia the Murderess. The blood-thirsty Queen. She listened, her eyes unfocused, to the talk when Rebecca and Sharon were not close to quiet the gossip down. The people didn’t think she understood their language and so they were bold about it, whispering like rats as they brought in wood for the fire, as she sat and watched the children play outside.  _ She is like a spider, _ they said.  _ She has our good king in her web, lured with the promise of an heir so that he will do her bidding. But she’s not viking and the gods won’t be fooled. _

They echoed what the old man had said. She didn’t belong there. 

She remembered the feel of the old man behind her, his hand on her throat and his body pressed to hers like he had the power to take whatever he wanted. Her life. The life and then kingdom of her husband. The blade of her dagger had caught him by surprise and she supposed she could have stopped when he’d staggered back, clutching his side and his eyes open so wide she thought they’d pop out. She could have stopped but it was easy, his trousers round his ankles, to keep going and make sure to take away the part of him that made him male, the only sound she registered being her heart hammering in her ears, his yells for help and the rest of the world muted out. 

“He was wrong about you,” Alexander smirked, leaning against the wall, and she sobbed, tossing the dagger to the floor, aware then and turning so that she could lean against the table, her legs weak. It was a miscalculation that cost everything because the next thing she knew, she was on her back with bloody hands around her neck and so much pain, dull pain from her stomach and traveling down to right between her legs, almost as if it was time.  _ (It couldn’t be time, Rebecca had promised the baby wasn’t ready to come…) _ .

Natalia didn’t remember much after that. Didn’t remember Sharon and Rebecca or the other women dragging Alexander away or carrying her to the bed. Didn’t remember that at first no one knew whether it was her blood or someone else’s. She didn’t remember the loss or feeling as though the curtain separating heaven and earth had somehow been ripped open through her body. 

She remembered his skin, so blue, remembered his small fingers clenched into fists like he was ready for a battle denied. She looked at her own fingers, deceptively soft and clean, and decided that the Holy Father didn’t exist, that she was done believing in a deity that ruled so cruelly and neglectfully. 

And she remembered Steve, holding her as she wept into his chest. She remembered him feeding her hot liquids and using wet towels to clean off the memories. She hadn’t wanted him to see, hadn’t wanted him to see all of the blood and the shame and her weakness. He stayed anyway.

_ Elskan min _ , he whispered over and over.  _ Forgive me.  _

***

“She is very ill,” Rebecca admitted, handing him a cup of water. He’d been sitting on the dock watching the tide, listening to the gulls, hoping to hear a message from the gods. He wanted Odin to explain himself, to explain the reasons behind all that had happened, the ways in which all that he thought he knew and believed were turned upside down. He’d trusted the gods would protect him, trusted that he’d be blessed abundantly for all the good he’d done as King. 

He wasn’t sure what to think anymore. Wasn’t sure if the gods had forsaken him or if it was all a test. 

“My lord,” Rebecca said softly behind him and he turned. She looked so much like her brother then, so much like James, the man he’d fought beside from birth. James, strong and smart and cunning until his death. James, who he’d loved and who had died in his arms after battle. James, who would have killed Alexander with his own two hands for what he’d done. 

“Rebecca, how is the Queen?” he swallowed, watching the seafoam instead of looking at her when he asked because he didn’t want her to see how much he hurt. _ Natalia _ . He’d left her unnecessarily, the trip to rescue Sitwell something he could have delegated. He’d left her alone in the care of Alexander, in the care of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He should have known, should have listened to his instincts, to the subtleties in Alexander’s advice. 

He should have seen the false loyalty and Alexander’s plans to steal his throne. 

“She’s ill,” Rebecca said, face stricken. “And she won’t follow my advice. She needs to let him go, let her body accept that he is gone…”

Steve stiffened, heat flooding his gut all the way up his chest and his throat. He understood what Rebecca was saying. That the loss was killing his wife. But how could he ask her to let go if he hadn’t let go himself? 

“My son is in Valhalla,” he whispered even as he wasn’t himself sure. 

“In Freya’s arms,” Rebecca agreed. “And Natalia will follow if she doesn’t fight.”

Steve nodded, the thought of losing her more than he could endure. “She will fight.”

He said it but when he went back to their home, he was filled with doubt. She sat, buried in fur, next to the door, her eyes far away and he wondered if she was already gone. If she was waiting for her god or the Allfather to finally allow her the peace of death. She was pale, that much hadn’t changed. But now sweat was dripping along her forehead and when he knelt in front of her and touched her hand, she shivered. 

“Natalia,” he said her name, his throat tight. “Elskan min.”

“My Lord,” she whispered, her eyes meeting his for the first time in days. For the first time since he’d come home and found her. She sounded so tired, so broken, nothing in her voice soothing his heart. He reached up to wipe the tears that fell from her eyes, drawing his hand back when he realized she was hot as fire. 

He didn’t know what to say to that, his heart hammering as he pushed the heavy furs off, when he saw the way her shift clung to her body, the fever burning her alive. She looked up, her eyes confused and her teeth chattering, and he picked her up so that he could move her to their bed. 

“Natalia,” he whispered, uncovering her so that the cool air might chill the fever, and she started to cry. “Natalia, you are sick…”

She didn't answer, didn't confirm or deny and he moved so that he was beside her, pulling her into his arms and fitting himself against her. He felt helpless and angry. He had been so stupid and blind, leaving her alone. She was his prize, his heart, and he was losing her for it. When he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, he couldn't help his own tears, staining her hot skin like markers of his own foolishness and guilt. 

She turned when he cried, moved so her weak fingers could card through his hair and he sighed into her. He was going to lose her and he decided then that when it happened, he would drown himself in the sea. At least that way, they would all be together.

“Steve,” she said quietly, his name on her lips like a mirage. “I'm sorry…”

It was an absurd loop, two wounded people apologizing to one another for nothing that could have been helped. And when he pressed his cheek to the top of her breast, she whimpered. Not for arousal, no, and he understood instantly because her breasts were swollen and hard.  _ Full. _

“What is this?” he asked, his hand passing over the wet spot in her shift, over one hardened nipple. It smelled…sweet and he knew, his heart breaking into a million splintered pieces. 

_ “Moloko _ ,” she whispered in her own language, her voice breaking. 

Whatever it was, it was killing her, he realized frantically, pushing her gown up so that he could take a closer look. Dark nipples jutted out against the air and already he could see the drip of milk.  Food for his son, he thought with a shudder, watching as her chest heaved up and down and her eyes watched him as if to see what he would do. 

She didn’t have to tell him that it was painful, he could see it in her eyes, could imagine it just in the tightened flesh.  He had to do something but the solution terrified him and he tried to imagine every other alternative. No other babies were born, there was no one to relieve her, no one to be fed.  _ Like poison _ , he thought with a grimace,  _ that has to be taken out before the sickness consumes her and takes her away from me. _

“Elskan min,” he whispered, cupping one heavy breast gently, the milk pouring out in a steady trickle then. There was one clear solution and when he looked up at her for permission, she nodded, her face marked by tears and so much pain. He wasn’t a child, wasn’t sure how it worked anymore, wasn’t sure how he felt about taking what wasn’t his, except that he couldn’t lose her. He refused to let the gods win. 

“Please,” she whispered and Steve kissed her lips softly before trailing kisses down feverish skin. Her collarbone, her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. When he squeezed one breast carefully, a  stream of hot milk poured out and he thought for a second that it would do, that it would be enough. And then he considered the waste of it all, the loss for her and for his son. Natalia panted when he touched a tentative tongue to her right breast, her fists balled up against the bed and he shut his eyes tight so he didn’t have to see her face, it broke his heart too much to bear. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated that prayer again, right before his lips curled around her areola, right before he relaxed his tongue and let the hot milk pour in, his body covering hers in a way that was half possessive and half childlike. She brought her knees up against him as he suckled, and she sighed, the relief clear even as the flow from her breast seemed neverending.  She didn’t talk but he felt her relax as he massaged the knots of clogged up milk loose, the ebb and flow of sweet a surprise against all the pain. 

When he moved to the other side, it was if she had melted into their bed, her face tired and her breathing slow. He watched her as he fed, her eyes hooded as though she was finally at ease, finally able to rest, lazy fingers combing his hair and drumming along his tattoos. 

After he finished, she curled up with her head on his chest and slept and he prayed that the gods were finished with their trials. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you got this far, thank you and i'm sorry


End file.
